


Cold Night

by Bored_Panda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, first time guys, lets do this, nosmutsorry, werewolf!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bored_Panda/pseuds/Bored_Panda
Summary: John's too cold and the heating's given out. Because fuck John Watson's life, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my Camcam, who requested this fluff for some reason.

John leant tired back against the sofa, eyes closing as a sigh escaped quiet lips. He knew it was needless to be silent, that Sherlock was in his post-case fatigue and was most likely sleeping like the dead. Still, the doctor couldn't help the instinctive need to stay quiet, just in case the ridiculous man woke and attempted to throw the ironing box again. It was still very much raining outside, and it just happened that the heating indoors wasn't cutting it, despite the fact that the exhausted man had set it to nearly eighty degrees. Another shudder ran through the drenched man-- who frowned, hearing the furnace sputter and give out. There were tears threatening his eyes, each of him feeling more and more miserable as the seconds ticked by. He had just wanted some takeaway and to buy some blankets, but no!

Sherlock had insisted (threatened) that they make their way home, but it was only when he started stumbling, slurring his words did John start to worry and finally give in. In the cab, he had leant against John, excess warmth radiating off the detective as he cuddled in closer to his flatmate, burrowing his nose into the doctor's neck. John had looked up into the rear-view mirror, catching the cabbie's eye-- which shone with a certain look that held amusement and an odd twinkle. John knew that look. It was a sign, his mind automatically sending signals to sigh and reply with a tired hiss of, "I'm not gay." And once they had gotten in front 221 Baker Street, Sherlock had clung to John, sniffing him oddly while the doctor had paid the fare. "Not gay, my arse," the cabbie had said.

And once inside the door of their own flat, Sherlock had shoved John away-- an exact and utter opposite from how he'd practically been a second skin to the doctor before. He half crawled, half stumbled to his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

And then there was John, who quietly moped to himself as the furnace gave away before his very eyes. He was a grown man, for God's sakes! He was not about to slip a few tears because he had the most annoying prick for a flatmate and that-- the doctor sniffled-- that the heating system was going down. In a matter of minutes, though, John was too cold to even cry. He exhaled, still stranded on their sofa before he curled his knees up, in on himself. Why John hadn't gone up to his room, you may ask? It was because it was literally. glued. shut. "It's for a case, John!" Sherlock had shouted when John had threatened to bring down hell on him. And unfortunately, John had no choice but to go along with it. Because who was he to stand in the way of a case and Sherlock Holmes?

The only bedroom door that could be opened, opened. John leant further back into his chair, listening for Signs of Sherlock, but was not very surprised when he didn't hear any. For all he knew, the detective had opened the door, just to note how the dust swirled in this dim moonlight. But what did surprise John was the sound of heavy claws against the wooden floor. He stood, muttering a small, "Sherlock?" As he looked for the source of the sound. And soon, it made itself known.

A creature walked lazily, sitting right across from John and looking straight up into his eyes with scary smartness. "Oh fucking--" John moved with slow movements, backing away slowly as he perched higher on the sofa, the leather providing the older man with a firm grip as he seated himself on the backrest of the long thing. Still keeping his eyes on the... beast, the doctor reached for his phone with shaky hands. As both John and the... wolf listened to the notifications springing up on Sherlock's phone as John frantically texted his cry for help. The wolf-- the huge wolf, the too big to be a goddamn wolf wolf narrowed its eyes before doing something akin to scoffing as it pranced up and onto the seat of the sofa, tugging at the base of John's jeans.

John fell.

There was no other way to describe it-- the panic, the odd yelp, the frantic movements as he scrambled to get away from the thing. His tailbone would ache in the morning from the impact, but right now, the doctor only hoped he'd still be alive when the sun arose. 

The thing came closer. John quit his frantic movements, knowing it was hopeless as his survival instinct kicked in, telling him to shut the hell up. The doctor bit down on his tongue and looked away, watching his breath as it turned white and disappeared in front of him. The air was cold and so was John, but that problem was so soon forgotten that it felt as if it hadn't been a problem in the first place. For fuck's sakes, there was a ginormous wolf staring him down, cold was nothing compared to the fear in John's heart. Call it a fear, call it a phobia, but wolves were more than a simple nightmare to the doctor.

Minutes passed and eventually, the wolf moved closer, circling the fallen man a few times while he watched it with half-lidded, cast away eyes. No need to give it any look that it might consider a challenge. John continued to watch his breath whitening in the cold air, now too afraid to even make his eyes follow the creature as it slowly approached him. The doctor flinched as he felt the first brush of soft, barely-curly hair, his muscles more than ready to run-- but before he could, it nuzzled the side of the doctor, forcing him onto his back before it placed a large, steady paw on John to keep him there. Instinctively, John whispered a small, "Brilliant," into the air, watching the animal as it cocked its head, its intelligent eyes lighting up in a... familiar? way. Before John could think too much of it, the creature placed one leg on the other side of the doctor before its back leg joined it, successfully creating a cage of animal limbs, making it impossible for John to escape. This fact was only further heightened when it moved down, its lithe body covering the man-- who had a sudden fear of being crushed by the thing. Still, it supported its own weight, nuzzling into John's neck before letting out a content sigh-like thing, though the erratic heartbeat of the man didn't slow.

"Yoo-hoo!! Boys!!" Mrs Hudson's voice sounded from the other side of the door to 221B. She didn't wait for a response before the pushed the door open, one hand holding a tray of tea and biscuits. The wolf growled, paws slipping as it ran towards her, snapping its teeth. John wordlessly reacted, throwing himself forward, but missing by half an inch, the creature simply being too fast.

"Oh! Sherlock Holmes! How many times have I told you not to scare me like that?!" The wolf only bared its teeth at her, still growling. John, on the other hand, was still freezing, still shivering, still on the floor, still very much in shock. His body didn't bother doing anything, frozen as his mind attempted to comprehend this new... knowledge? Discovery? Whatever this was, it was racing, trying to categorize the information. Mrs Hudson petted the top of the creature's large head a few times before setting the tray on the table and making her way out with a, "Don't get into any trouble, you two!" Long after she left, the room still swamped in darkness, illuminated by only the moon and a few sparse clouds reflecting the light, John was still on the floor, staring at the wolf with wide eyes. Sherlock. Sherlock. It approached him, careful and gentle, shoving at his shoulders until the doctor complied, sitting up. But apparently, even that wasn't enough. Sher-- Sherlock tugged on his shirt, half dragging him and half forcing the doctor to crawl to the detective's bedroom. It jumped onto the mussed bed, letting out a short huff before it moved, giving John space, too. The doctor warily climbed into bed beside his... flatmate and... could honestly not help relaxing into the warmth of the bed, the duvet thick around him. He closed his eyes briefly, taking in deep breaths and relaxing as he succumbed to the softness of the mattress and the bubble of heat he created due to the blanket.

The peace was disrupted, though, as the wolf let out a small chortle, looking down at John with its unearthly eyes as it moved closer to the doctor. John looked back, unafraid now, looking back at Sherlock's eyes as he wrapped himself further in the blankets as if they would protect him from the wolf, whose feet hung off the edge of the bed. Still, the doctor didn't move, not wanting to return to the freezing living room-- and besides, Sherlock wouldn't hurt him.

John told himself this, tried to reassure himself as his eyes closed again. Immediately, he reopened them with panic as he felt himself being moved, tugged into the space between Sherlock's fore and hind legs, his head being awkwardly forced to rest on the thing's limb as what-should-be-Sherlock's-left-arm circled the tiny man's waist. John was pinned, wrapped in a cocoon of warm with one of the most dangerous and most confusion-inducing creatures holding him in place. Their even breaths were quiet in the night, and the doctor had to admit, his Sherlock was rather comfortable like this, cuddly and no sharp bones, replaced by thick black fur. John ran his hands through the fur that was closest to him, working on small knots and tangles while listening to Sherlock's purrs before he eventually lost himself to a content sleep.


	2. Fear and Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's shaking and something's growling.

Sherlock hunched over his microscope, watching his slow-moving microorganisms. Frustration growled through him, annoyance sparking as they gave out and died. For what? For what reason? He exhaled loudly, running his fingers through his hair. Cold— was it cold? When did it turn cold? No wonder the creatures had died, some imbecile (John) had forgotten to turn the heating on. Where was he anyway? Gone for a _date_ again? Sherlock huffed again before standing, ignoring the way his chair fell back. Being dramatic was an art— one that had to be practised even when there was no one around to witness it.

He climbed up the stairs, stomping to accentuate his annoyance because the entire world simply had to know that Sherlock was in a terrible mood. Hell, if he could, he’d probably carry around a sign that said, "Don’t breathe in my direction or I can make you _disappear."_ He had tried. John had only given him a look a look and had taken it away from him. The detective pouted, waiting a few seconds while tapping the floor with his foot, louder and louder as seconds passed. "John!" There was a resonating growl from the other side, a hoarse shout accompanying it. "John?" The detective backed away from the door, annoyance turning into fear. That night, at Baskervilles, John hadn’t been the only one fearing. In fact, some deep aversion (sadness had turned into fear) towards dogs had taken residence in him ever since he’d… since he’d lost Redbeard.

Choosing not to dwell on his sadness now, Sherlock quietly, slowly tip-toed down the stairs again, his heart beating erratically. What was John doing? How could he have not told him of a guest or a pet or whatever that monster was? Before Sherlock could reach for the third step down, the door broke behind him. The detective flinched, his mind screaming at him to run, though his muscles stayed stiff and firm, only moving to shake uselessly. It was moving closer towards him, one heavy sound of paws hitting the wooden floor at a time, nearing him, panting quietly. Sherlock tried to back away, to keep his head down and just move, but it didn’t work— not in the slightest.

After painful moments of the creature watching, observing the detective, it moved closer, sniffing at him. Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat, his pale skin whitening further as it snarled, erratically rubbing its fur against the tall man while growling and snapping its teeth. Sherlock dared one shaky exhale— which the animal clearly did not like. His lower back was nudged by the incredibly large muzzle, which shoved and pushed at him. When the creature received no response, it pushed harder, forcing Sherlock to half tumble and half walk down the stairs. He quickly got to his knees as the wolf approached him, snarling and salivating, its deep blue eyes glowing in the chill night. Sherlock shivered, watching his breath turn white (Oh good God, how he longed for a cigarette right about now) before casting his eyes away from the wolf again. He wanted it gone, wanted it to magically disappear just as it had magically appeared.

It joined him, dragging its tail across Sherlock’s trembling body as its large figure circled him, reading him.

And then it pounced.

Sherlock scrambled, emitting a shout, at least he hoped it was a shout, it could’ve been easily a cry. Panic crept into his heart, forcing it out or rhythm before it seeped into his lungs, preventing him from breathing. The worst of it was the sobs that were threatening to bubble out. The tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he gasped, the creature holding a paw over his torso as if to steady him, its eyes worried. But of course, the detective didn’t notice that. He could only see himself being trapped, held down by the monster as it tried to hurt him. "Please," he murmured. A beg. Sherlock Holmes never begged, and yet, his voice was small, barely there, and desperate. The large ear of the animal twitched, its face moving and expressing something akin to surprise.

The detective scrambled away again, shivering and shaking, his body trembling from both fear and the cold. His experiment was long forgotten, his eyes only holding absolute dread of the creature in front of him. "Please, stop. Let me go, my John— he’ll hunt you. If you hurt… me." Sherlock let out another half-choked sob, knowing he wasn’t going to get out of this alive, knowing that his last words were going to be a pathetic beg. The wolf cocked its head, its eyes seeming to warm as it abruptly sat, its tail swinging this way and that behind it. It crawled slower towards him, head practically on the ground.

Sensing an opportunity, Sherlock kicked, catching the thing in the shoulder before finding his feet and running towards the door of the flat, only to find it locked. He fumbled with the lock, trying to open it, but to no avail. He felt his knees give out as the creature tugged on the base of his pants, throwing the detective off balance. He hit the floor with a smack to his head, further disoriented by the shock of falling and the panic of the thing still in the room. There was really no point anymore. The detective curled in on himself, drawing into himself like a child hiding from the dark as the creatures growled lightly behind him, its claws making scratching noises as it paced.

Sherlock didn’t feel himself move, feel himself be grabbed until it was too late, until the world was a blur around him and he was… pinned. Pinned under the heavy creature. It nuzzled at his neck, licking lightly as if it would calm down the horrible, shaking sobs that were escaping Sherlock as if it would simply make his fear and panic go away. It held him there, the paws making a cage, as its heavy weight rested on the human’s body. "Let me go, please—"  Sherlock choked out again, gasping for breath. The creature barely moved, but it shuffled, exposing its own neck. Something around it glinted, a metal necklace of sorts. It wasn’t suffocating the thing, holding enough slack so that if it were upright, it would rest on the space between its collar bones.

Dog tags.They were dog tags. Sherlock let out a harsh breath, trying to make sense of anything, though fear was still clouding him, making it nearly impossible. He slowly reached up, flinching as the thing growled, freezing as it continued before continuing his actions as it stopped. He read the words and numbers on the metal, his mind fighting and racing against the thick emotions that surrounded him as it attempted to register the information.

John Watson.

Sherlock dropped the metal as if it had burnt him, looking up at the wolf as its brown eyes looked down on him, its body still holding him in place.  "John Watson." He murmured, his nerves easing. John wouldn’t hurt him, he was a soldier, sure, a doctor, yes— but he was a friend. Friends saved friends, but they did not hurt them. Sherlock let out a shaky breath, observing a deducing the thing covering him with its body. Deep brown fur, hinted with greys. He shimmered in the moon, muscle rippling under thick skin as his tail continued to move this way and that.

The detective reached up, running his fingers through the fur carefully, before taking the dog tags in his hands, rereading them and making sure that his conclusion was true. That this was John Watson. Sherlock forced himself to relax, closing his eyes briefly as he tried to slow his breathing. Cautiously, he reached up, scratching the underside of John’s chin lightly, listening and categorizing the purr he emitted carefully into his mind palace. The wolf relaxed further on top of Sherlock, almost all of his weight holding the detective down. As time passed, the two flatmates stayed that way, drawing warmth from each other, one having too many questions while another didn’t have the proper mouth to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this little continuation of my oneshot for greysnowflake1212. Thank you for requesting it! I didn't really know howww to end it, so if it falls a bit flat, i'm so sorry.


End file.
